Forbidden Fruit
by bookaholic6
Summary: "Giving in to temptation was a lot less of a struggle than she'd thought it would be, but then again, she'd already given in long before, hadn't she?" EWE.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

* * *

"_Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart."_

_William Shakespeare_

* * *

It's a garden, thought Hermione in wondrous surprise. The room was dark and dank, yet the flowers still managed to not just survive but flourish.

"It's the same reaction every time I bring someone down here," the old wizard chuckled as Hermione tried in vain to close her mouth. "Take your time and don't be ashamed to look around. Just don't touch anything."

Hermione slowly wandered around the riot of mismatched plants growing right out of the ground.

"Who—whose soul is that?" she murmured, pointing at the largest plant in the room. It stood tall and proud at the center and had exactly seven black roses on it.

The man laughed. "Whose do you think it is?"

Hermione blushed. Of course, it was obvious. Only Lord Voldemort would be as self-absorbed as to have the most disgustingly beautiful flowers in the room.

* * *

If she were allowed to tell her friends, she knew they would find it painfully ironic that her first project as an Unspeakable was studying Horcruxes, but it had been her ruthless journey to destroy them that had recommended her for the job. After all, Hermione was a firm believer in knowing her enemy, and she'd devoured every book that even had the word Horcrux in it.

But she'd never imagined it would be quite like this, she thought as she pored over the past researcher's notes in the garden. Somehow, he had figured out that the soul pieces from destroyed Horcruxes never made it back to their original owners. Instead they manifested as flowers, for some odd reason, and from there he had managed to coax them to grow only in the Ministry. She sighed as she looked around the garden, her gaze falling as it always did on the most magnificently terrifying plant of them all. She shook her head and returned to her notes. She'd caught herself reaching out to touch a petal several times because somehow, around those roses, she couldn't seem to remember the danger she was in. They were so dangerously magnetic.

* * *

Like brambles snaring a rabbit, the flowers had wrapped themselves around her mind, and no matter how she twisted, they would not let her go. She often found her thoughts drifting back towards them throughout the day while she ate breakfast, waited in the lifts, read at home . . .

The rest of the world soon seemed so mundane compared to her otherworldly garden; how could she possibly go back down to Earth when she spent every day in such a heavenly Hell?

She's become so obsessed that even someone as oblivious as Ron notices.

"Where have you been?" he snarls. She can't really bring herself to care; her mind is still at that garden.

"Work," she mutters dully, shrugging out of her jacket.

"Hermione, what's the matter with you?" Ron snaps. "You've been so distant lately. I thought we were supposed to be more important than each other's work. You'll notice I never put my work as an Auror over our plans!"

Something in her cracks, and the words are pouring out now—

"This is more important than anything, can't you see that? You're just jealous my job means more than yours does! I'm sorry for actually having a job because of my abilities and not because my best friend's Harry Potter!"

He stares at her as if he can't even recognize her anymore. Maybe he can't. Right now, she doesn't even know who she is.

"Fine, if that's how you feel, then fine," he whispers, as he leaves.

She slumps down in a chair, trying to force herself to cry, to do anything to show that this affected her.

But there was nothing at all.

* * *

The first thing she set out to do was simply observe the plants. The first researcher had spent the majority of his time moving the flowers into the Ministry and matching them to their original owners, but he hadn't been able to figure out what made them tick.

So she watched and waited.

_December 17, 2002_

_The flowers all bloom at odd intervals with no rhyme or reason whatsoever. The two tulips don't bloom at the same time, but they don't bloom in the spring either. Moreover, the flowers only open for one day._

_May 2, 2003_

_It's strange. Every single one of _his _roses is in full bloom. I wonder if their flowering is linked to their owner's death?_

_July 8, 2003_

_Confirmed earlier suspicions. The flowers only open on the day their owners died. Is this some sort of memorial? Are the souls still _conscious _in there? Are they still connected to their owners?_

_August 23, 2003_

_Each flower corresponds to a soul piece. No wonder Voldemort's is the only one with so many flowers._

_August 28, 2003_

_It's curious how adamant my boss and the earlier researcher were about not touching the flowers. Remember to ask if there is a story involved._

_September 1, 2003_

_My boss could only tell me that the old researcher had, in his final days of work, insisted that no one touch them. However, by then, he had been going somewhat mad, locking himself in the garden for weeks at a time and stumbling around with a strange light in his eyes. He still believes, though, that even half-mad, the researcher would not have forbidden contact without sufficient reason._

_February 26, 2004_

_Nothing. Nothing, absolutely nothing. The next logical step is actually handling them, but my boss refuses to let me. I agree that it could be dangerous, but what could possibly happen? Besides, there is nothing else I can do to find information about them._

* * *

She rubs her eyes furiously and flips through her notes so fast she nearly rips some of the pages. Sighing, she glares at the silently mocking flowers. They seem to taunt her with promises of untapped knowledge that she will never be able to reach. Especially _his _plant, with its obscene perfection. The closer she gets to it, the more she is tempted.

Just one touch, it seems to beg. A quick brush of your fingers; no one will ever know. It's absolutely safe, _I promise._

Sometimes she thinks she knows why the former researcher went insane.

* * *

"Hermione!" a voice shouts out distantly. She wants to ignore it and just get back to her garden, but she recognizes this voice and knows it won't just give up.

Turning around slowly, she attempts to smile. "How are you, Harry?"

He stops, surprised that she actually responded. Her coworkers have been saying that she ignores everyone now. "I'm fine—but, listen, how are you? I barely ever see you anymore, it seems like you're always busy—"

"I'm fine, Harry," she lies easily. "You know how I get when I have a problem I need to solve." _Take the hint, please; just leave._

"This isn't about Ron, is it? I know it must be hard for you since he, uh, just got married, but I thought you were over him, by now," he says awkwardly, stretching out a hand to pat her shoulder.

"No, it's not that," she snaps coldly, shrugging off his hand. _Honestly, I have much better things to worry about._ She hadn't even thought about Ron in months. "If you're done bothering me about trivial things, I have important work to do," she says, striding off. Harry stands behind her, stunned into silence.

* * *

They whisper in the faint wind that blows through the room, promising her knowledge beyond her wildest dreams if she would only _give in and touch_. As she moves through the garden, jotting down her observations, she notices that _his_ is the only plant that remains silent. It's as if it wishes to distinguish itself from the dozens of other clamoring voices. She snorts and renews her resolve to ignore them all while she finishes up her rounds. But like a shy admirer, she can't help but furtively glance at _his_ plant one last time before she leaves.

Funnily enough, though, the silence from _his_ plant is more alluring and sinister than the ghostly murmurs.

* * *

More than half the pages in her notebook are devoted to _his_ soul, she thinks idly as she browses in its pages for just one more clue. Lifting her gaze from the book, she stares at the flowers, nonchalantly wondering what would happen if she were to take an axe to them. Would they scream in agony like the Horcruxes had? Would they rise out of their flowery hide-outs and taunt her into letting them live? Or would they just fall, anticlimactically, and finally go to Death? She closed her eyes, picturing the decapitated blossoms, dismembered branches strewn all over the floor, a tangle of angry leaves. It would look hideously beautiful, she decides, and speculates that that was how the garden was meant to look.

The roses on _his _bush shake in a gentle breeze, but there are no drafts in the room and none of the other plants are shaking.

She imagines it's laughing at her.

* * *

It feels like she's been waiting for this date to come all year, but now that it's here, she's unsure of what to do. There is no epiphany, no sudden surety. She feels as lost as ever as she gazes at her garden.

Without really meaning to, she is standing in front of _his _plant. The roses are in full bloom, as she knew they would be. They look exceptionally enticing today, gorgeously open with luxurious-looking petals. There are even perfect drops of dew, even though she's sure that's never happened before.

_Pluck one off. Don't be afraid. Isn't it beautiful? Don't you want to touch it? Do it. Now._

She shivers, absent-mindedly reaching out her hand, only drawing it back in the nick of time. What is she doing? She's becoming as crazy as the old researcher.

But they really are beautiful, and she wants to, so much—

There are so many reasons why she shouldn't be doing this, and they all run through her mind, but it's as if she's not really herself and is only watching as her hand reaches out once again and brushes the petals.

Giving in to temptation was a lot less of a struggle than she'd thought it would be, but then again, she'd already given in long before, hadn't she?

She plucks a single rose off the bush.

Nothing happens; she almost lets out the breath she hadn't known she was holding—

And it's the calm before the storm because suddenly the garden implodes and there's nothing, no flowers, nothing at all.

She's on the ground (when had she even fallen?), only clutching ash in her hands.

There's a man standing where _his _plant had been, and she knows she's made a terrible mistake.

He walks over to her and crouches down next to her, looking as destructively stunning as his roses had been.

"So Eve tasted the forbidden fruit, did she?" he smirks.

She closes her eyes and weeps for her fall and all that she knows now.

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